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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29626443">The Artist Formerly Known As Jaskier</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FickleBiscuits/pseuds/FickleBiscuits'>FickleBiscuits</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, College Student Jaskier | Dandelion, Crack Treated Seriously, Hitman Geralt, Jaskier can/learns how to fight, Jaskier is also a sassy bitch, Jaskier is not a damsel in distress, M/M, Slow Burn, The Author Regrets Nothing, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Yup we're here again, just a little bit, not totally, this is canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 18:33:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,238</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29626443</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FickleBiscuits/pseuds/FickleBiscuits</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Finally, on the third day, Jaskier can’t bear it anymore. He texts Yennefer.<br/>"I’m going to ask you something and you are going to be 100% honest with me. Do I work at a mob bar?"</p><p> - or - </p><p>Jaskier encounters a large-ish speed bump named Geralt on the road to international pop stardom.</p><p>- or - </p><p>“You asked me to help you.” Geralt has the audacity to sound offended.<br/>Jaskier levers himself up, despite how the movement jostles his wobbly, throbbing brain. “And clearly I meant that I wanted you to kidnap me!”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion &amp; Triss Merigold, Jaskier | Dandelion &amp; Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>166</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Me: I should be doing homework, or writing for ten other projects, I don't have time for another fandom.<br/>My brain: 'Hands over 30,000 words of Geraskier faff and pats me on the shoulder.'<br/>Me: Dammit.</p><p>This is my first The Witcher fic, I'm so excited to be here. My knowledge of the lore consists of the Netflix show and whatever random bits I find online. That said, I hope you all enjoy my self-indulgent rambling, general emoting about college, and Jaskier being a disaster flirt.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>Wild nights - Wild nights!</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Were I with thee</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Wild nights should be</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Our luxury!</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p><b> <em>Excerpt </em> </b> <strong><em>from Poem 269</em> by: Emily Dickenson</strong></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>   Jaskier perches on the sturdy wooden stool, knees up, heels caught on the well worn rungs. His guitar is clung astride his lap, strings crisp and tight under callused fingers as he picks out the opening strains of a song he’d composed early last semester, the one his professor had called ‘fickle and unnecessarily complicated’. The patrons of Mustachios don’t seem to have the same opinion. He hears a few solitary hoots of approval ring out from the darkness beyond the tavern’s tiny stage at the familiar first bars, this is far from the first time he's performed this particular tune for them and it's nice to know it's recognizable. He lifts his head and grins into the crowd he can’t see, just a few scattered silhouettes if he squints.</p><p>   Jaskier leans in, presses his mouth to the microphone, shuts his eyes and tastes the notes on his tongue, the sweet sibilants begging to burst forth. So he takes a deep breath, and lets the music out.</p><p>   It’s heady, playing for an audience, even one this small. Jaskier never had stage fright. Being in front of a crowd of strangers has never been mortifying or terrifying in the way it is for most people. Rather he’s energized by it, entranced by it. He has no problem baring himself and pouring his soul out in front of them, and he likes to think his music is better for it.</p><p>   He has no complaints about this crowd especially. Performing at '<em>Mustachios'</em> on the weekends is certainly a step up from his first concerts, staged inside a drafty Elementary school gymnasium with an atrocious floor plan and worse acoustics. The money here is good, the college credit’s better, and the atmosphere is absolutely unparalleled. Yennefer keeps her place clean and free of the boorish, meatheaded elements that can be attracted to pubs and taverns like hers, the ones who are more likely to toss a drink in Jaskier’s face than spare change into his tip jar.</p><p>   The melody is sweet, the sound of voices joining in the chorus sweeter. Jaskier lets the last notes hang in the air, crooning pianissimo into the microphone, a soft decrescendo that is swallowed by the applause that politely erupts from his audience.</p><p>   He opens his eyes and dips his head, lets his grin go a bit lob-sided. “Thanks.” </p><p>   He raises a hand to the not immodest amount of cheering, letting the anonymous praise warm him. They’re a good bunch.</p><p>   “That’s all I’ve got for tonight.” He laughs at a few of the people who let out disappointed ‘awws’ for his benefit and plays it up, hamming for their benefit, and better tips.</p><p>   “I know. But this songbird must fly, or he'll be a goose come the 'morrow. Please come back to see me next Saturday. You’ve all been absolutely tremendous. Enjoy the rest of your evening!”</p><p>   He packs up his guitar and exits the stage with a theatrical bow and an equally auspicious “Au Revoir.” before mounting the stairs that bring him back down to earth. He grabs up the tip jar and slips through the loose throng wandering between tables. He’s stopped every few steps by fans - which are few - and by amiable patrons - which are more frequent - for a word of encouragement or to snap a quick photo. One lovely young lady who <em>definitely isn't</em> out with a fake ID, manages to stammer out a request that he sign her napkin, which of course Jaskier grants with a flourish and watches her bounce back to her friends. </p><p>   By the time he’s sidling up to the bar, Yennefer already has his usual waiting for him.</p><p>   He sips the drink gingerly, savoring the first cold swallow on his well-used throat and lets out his typical appreciative groan. No one he’s ever met can mix a drink like Yennefer. He’s going to miss her terribly when he graduates in the spring.</p><p>   The woman herself is behind the bar, just sending off an order with some waiter Jaskier thinks is named Even, they cycle through so quickly it's hard to keep track. Yennefer glides to Jaskier’s side of the bar and poses there, one tantalizing hip pressed up against the bar, letting the long, dark tumble of her hair slither over her shoulder while she casts a vigilant, nearly predatory eye over her establishment. The smirk she levels at Jaskier, two years ago, he would have called mean. Consistent exposure to both, however, has taught him that it is in fact one of her teasing smiles.</p><p>   “If you’re going to stand half a chance on the concert circuit,” She says, “You’re going to have to get some stamina. Or any.”</p><p>   Jaskier smiles back and says sweetly. “I have faith that my producers won’t be overzealous bitches who force me to sing for six hours straight in order to trick customers into patronizing third rate establishments.”</p><p>   Yennifer’s eyes dance. “And just how are those producers, Julian? Oh, that’s right,” She says, her tone sweet and utterly venomous. “...nonexistent.”</p><p>   “I’m still in school.” Jaskier shrugs. “In another year I’ll be off to fame and fortune and you’ll no longer be able to take advantage of my charitable naivety. Oh, but do try not to miss me too desperately when I’m gone, my sweet. I’ll make sure to come and visit as much as my no doubt incredibly busy schedule will allow.”</p><p>   Yennefer scoffs. “I’m sure I should be honored.”</p><p>   “Well, yes, certainly.” Jaskier nods, all mock seriousness. He swivels his stool around to survey the bar, idle and a bit restless from the long set. His knee bounces and he takes another taste of his drink. “It’s only right to offer proper gratitude to those small people who helped one along the way, and I am certainly not too proud to remember my humble beginnings.”</p><p>   “Before you leave for your public, Elton John.” Yennefer snorts and slips an envelope from the pocket of her apron and across the bartop. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”</p><p>   “Elton John was a piano man.” Jaskier retorts huffily as he slips off his shoe and tucks the cash into the sole. He looks up, his eyes ambling over the crowd. He catches a flicker of white in the corner of the pub, incongruous in the otherwise staid and dim interior.</p><p>   "Everyone knows..." He turns his head to track it and when his eyes settle on the source, his breath lodges high in his throat. The man seated with his back against the wall, a half-full pint of some dark ale set on the empty table in front of him is, objectively speaking, the most attractive man Jaskier has ever seen in his widely exposed life, all big muscles and long white hair and a jaw that could cut diamonds. Jaskier is certain he’s never seen him in this bar before. He thinks...no he <em> knows </em> he would have noticed someone like him sitting in the back corner and being all...sexy and broody and muscly...</p><p>   Yennefer makes a soft sound behind him, clears her throat. It’s an oddly uncertain sound and it works to grab Jaskier’s attention back from the man in the corner.</p><p>   “Yennefer,” Jaskier puts his drink on the bar and plants both hands flat next to it, “<em>Who</em> is <em>that</em>?”</p><p>   Yennefer looks a little torn for a second, another anomaly, before she ducks her head and says. “Stay away, Jaskier. He’ll chew you up and spit you back out.”</p><p>   “If I’m lucky.” Jaskier laughs, glances back over his shoulder. The man hasn’t moved an inch, just keeps staring into the sad half of his ale.</p><p>   “Jaskier.” Yennefer says sharply. Jaskier looks up at her tone, brows raised in surprise. Her mouth is tight and all the humor is gone from her eyes. “I’m serious. Stay away from him.”</p><p>   “Shit, Yen.” Jaskier frowns. Shrugs. “Fine. Okay.” </p><p>   She relaxes then and pats his cheek in a way that makes him feel like he’s just finished a conversation with his Nanna Colette, the one that refers to him as a 'professional layabout'. It’s a bit of a wet blanket. He tosses back the last of his drink and picks up his guitar. </p><p>   “Thanks for the drink, Yennefer. I’ll see you next Saturday.”</p><p>   Yennefer doesn’t call him back and it’s just as well, Jaskier’s feeling a bit petty. He has the benefit of two years knowing the woman, or at least being acquainted with her, so he's at least mostly sure she’s just looking out for him, but Yennefer’s never warned him away from anyone before. Granted he’s also never shown much interest in anyone outside of his small collection of groupies, evenso, her behavior feels odd. If Jaskier didn’t know better, he might’ve said she was afraid.</p><p>   But afraid of the man, or <em>for</em> Jaskier? </p><p>   Jaskier chances one last glance back to the man in the corner, and nearly swallows his tongue when he catches eyes the color of molten gold staring straight back at him. He feels the touch of it like a physical blow, like a lightning strike. His hair is standing on end. He's energized and paralyzed at the same time. If Yennefer’s gaze was a butterfly board, this man’s is a mountain. </p><p>   And Jaskier desperately wants to be crushed. </p><p>   It’s kind of a forgone conclusion that he turns, without more than a passing thought to how furious Yennefer is going to be at him, and walks up to the table. Because honestly what’s a little conversation going to hurt? He's going to introduce himself, be generally charming and get told to fuck off and he'll go home and beat off to a pair of glorious eyes and that'll be the end of it.</p><p>   The man tracks him the whole way up to his table with those piercing eyes. Jaskier can feel the attention on him like pin pricks all over his skin, and by the time he’s standing, guitar in hand, in front of the corner table and smiling down at a total stranger, he feels positively alight with it.</p><p>   “Hello.” He says, jovial and stupidly and waits for the man to say something back, which the man does not. He does nothing except watch Jaskier, his expression practically glacial. Jaskier swallows and the fingers begin to tap a syncopated beat against his thigh. He may not get stage fright, but Jaskier is fucking chatty when he’s nervous and his first dorm-mate had taken one look at him on moving day and called him a ‘disaster’. Which is both true and distinctly unfair, but the point is that if this man wants to repulse Jaskier with his dark, brooding impassivity, he’s seriously miscalculated. </p><p>   “I’m Jaskier. Well, my name is Julian, but Jaskier is my stage name, like Meralyn Manson, or Lady Gaga, you know them, of course you know them, everyone knows them. You look like a Mother Monster fan, what with that fantastic hair, is that natural? Of course it is, you can’t get color like that out of a bottle. I’m Jaskier.”</p><p>   Jaskier winces. “I said that already. Right, I’m a performer. I perform. Up there.” He points blindly behind him in the vague direction of the stage. “You might’ve heard me earlier. It looks like you’ve been here a while, but I haven’t seen you around and I’ve been here for awhile, singing, and I’m pretty sure I would have noticed someone...like you…”</p><p>   He swallows, trailing off on a rather embarrassingly breathy articulation. For a second neither one of them speaks and Jaskier can practically feel Yennefer stalking over to murder his face in right now and he’s so definitely and thoroughly mortified he might just walk into the middle of the street and save her the trouble. He doesn't usually regret giving in to his impulses, but this might turn out to be one of those rare exceptions.</p><p>   The man with the white hair quirks an eyebrow and says. “Your stage name is ‘dandelion’.”</p><p>   He says it all incredulous, and it’s more of a statement than a question and holy fuck, if his face was attractive, Jaskier was in no way prepared for the husky, deep wash of his, just finished gargling a throatful of dick, voice. It’s sex. Pure and utter sex. And Jaskier can’t help but swoon a little bit right then and there. On the inside though, because his mouth is already back on autopilot and responding to sex voice with another glut of ill-conceived verbal patter.</p><p>   “See, not many people know that, it is very impressive that you know that. How, you must be asking yourself, did such a dashing and well-styled man come upon such a whimsical artist moniker?”</p><p>   Geralt grunts.</p><p>    “I am so glad you asked. It’s a bit of a long story, but peerlessly entertaining, if you happen to like tales about college students and a hedgehog that may or may not be able to tell the-”</p><p>   Jaskier chances a look over at the bar and just about jumps out of his skin when he spots Yennefer already halfway across the pub, her face terrifyingly blank, and closing quickly.</p><p>   “I’ve got to go.” He says, his voice raising on the first drawn out syllable. “But it was a pleasure to meet you…”</p><p>   He hesitates, waiting for the man to fill in his name in the obvious interlude. The man, frustratingly, doesn’t oblige.</p><p>   “I don’t think I caught your name.” Jaskier tries and glances again. If Yennefer gets her hands on him, he really does think he might die and he'd at least like to know the name of the man he's dying for before he perishes by way of bedeviled bartender.</p><p>   The man’s eyes dart to Yennefer over Jaskier’s shoulder and it might be Jaskier’s imagination, but he thinks he sees his lips twitch, once, in what could possibly be amusement?</p><p>   “I don’t think I threw it.” He says, then pins Jaskier again with a look. “I think you’d better run now.”</p><p>   Jaskier has never made it home so fast in his life.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>   Yennefer doesn’t call. She doesn’t text. She makes no attempt to communicate with Jaskier at all the entire week.</p><p>   He spends the whole seven days in abject terror. Every second he's not in class, he's holed up in his apartment with a carton of Ben and Jerry’s finest, and every second he is in class, his attention is squarely focused on the exits, waiting for his boss to burst and...well, his florid imagination may taper off there, but he can hardly be held responsible for that, he wasn’t exposed to violence growing up. His mother wouldn’t even let him watch superhero movies because she thought they were “too intense”. So his conjured ponderings of the torments Yennefer is capable of inflicting on his being are limited mostly to being suspended upside down and forced to wear lycra. Not necessarily in that order. </p><p>   He is an absolute mess of nerves and the only upside to his week is that everyone’s so complimentary of the new raw intensity he’s added to the whole body of his current compositions. He gives number twelve a smile and maybe, accidentally, crazy eyes too, but it’s really lovely to know that abject terror is good for ones’ muse.</p><p>   Saturday morning finds him face down on his couch, with a plastic spoon adhered to his bottom lip with fudge ripple. He can’t detach it, the delightful and scrumptiously addictive milk chocolate swirl has dried like glue to the gumline, and he ends up having to hold his face under the shower spray for five full minutes before the damn thing’s softened enough for him to prise free without taking the lower half of his jaw with it. Which would've seriously compromise his ability to continue giving stellar head. And sing. Which would also be bad. </p><p>   He has serious talks with himself the whole day about whether or not he should go to Moustachios that evening and ultimately decides that he has to. He can’t be a drama queen <em>all</em> the time, it’s fucking exhausting; if Yennefer is going to kill him, she’s going to find him no matter where he hides. And really, ghosting her is only going to pile more shit onto the shit mound he’s already stepped in.</p><p>   “You’re brave.” Jaskier tells his reflection. “You’re beautiful. You are a goddamn fabulous man and you are not afraid of a terrifying, possibly amicidious witch.”</p><p>   His reflection lets out a little ‘eep’ and is absolutely no help at all.</p><p>   Jaskier straightens the lay of his cuffs, grabs his guitar and slinks out the door. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>   Yennefer doesn’t even give him a chance to say anything. She arches one impeccable eyebrow at him and jerks her head at the stage.</p><p>   The place is already packed, mostly regulars, a few fresh faces and a couple of people he can tell are here specifically to listen to him perform.</p><p>   Jaskier had thought his self-preservation instincts were higher functioning than this, but clearly his brain just handed over its beer because instead of accepting Yennefer’s magnanimity, he leans across the bar, planting a hand on it and opens his mouth to explain about how sometimes the dick just wants what it wants. Yennefer’s cold hand plants itself on top of his, trapping him in place as she towers in close, her lips an inch from his ear.</p><p>   “You’re a fucking adult.” She says silkily. “You can do whatever you want. Make whatever bad fucking decisions you want. I can’t stop you, Julian and I won’t, I’m not your fucking mother.”</p><p>   She steps away again before Jaskier can point out she’d tried to do just that last Saturday, but...maybe that’s for the best. Jaskier takes a deep breath like he’s coming up for air. Yennefer shrugs and glances over towards the corner. </p><p>   “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”</p><p>   Jaskier follows the line of her gaze. He can’t help himself. And yeah, that same guy, Mr. McBroody, is sitting at that same dark corner table, staring into a similarly dark pint of beer. Fluttery wings tickle the inside of Jaskier's rib cage. Yes, he knows the man isn’t here <em> for </em> him, but he’s a little excited all the same. And the tiniest bit in lust with that chiseled jawline. And those pecs. And the eyes. And his voice.</p><p>   Yennefer sighs heavily and grabs up a rag. “Can you please get a fucking move on. I’m not paying you to ogle my customers.”</p><p>   Jaskier decides not to push his luck and gets a fucking move on.</p><p> </p><p>   </p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>   “I don’t understand why you think having a little conversation with the man is so terrible.” Jaskier confesses sourly into his vodka cranberry six hours later. </p><p>   The look Yennefer pins him is...not unwarranted. “Is that all you were looking for then, Julian? A little <em> conversation </em>?”</p><p>   She doesn’t even wait for him to try and lie...er, defend himself. She shakes her head. “There are some people who don’t ‘just’ anything, Jaskier. Geralt is one of them.”</p><p>   She stacks the glass she’s dried on a white dish towel and picks up another from the tiny pull drawer dishwasher under the counter. She shrugs. “But he’s your bad decision to make.”</p><p>   “Was he one of yours?” Jaskier asks. This is a bit surreal, and bar none, the most candid conversation he and Yennefer have ever had and he’s a bit thrown by this strange new vulnerability she seems to have hidden away beneath all of her barbs and swagger.</p><p>   Yennefer doesn’t answer, just frowns at the glass in her hands, which is neither confirmation nor denial, and - Jaskier supposes - is all the answer he’s likely to get. He doesn’t push it. He’s not a completely heartless monster, even if his family plays one on TV.</p><p>   He lingers at the bar that night a little longer than he usually does and lets the other bartender, Triss, spin the conversation off into delightful tangents. By the time he’s picking up his guitar case and heading home, his pay tucked safely into the sole of his shoe, he is both delightfully tipsy and certain that cucumber gin is seriously underrated. </p><p>   He checks the corner table - so sue him - and is a bit disappointed to see it’s empty. But only a little, alcohol is a lovely golden tinted filter over the bulk of any melancholy the absence of his wayward himbo may have gone. Jaskier snorts and wonders what Geralt might do if Jaskier ever called him a ‘himbo’ out loud? He’s really hoping it has something to do with angry sex, but that’s kind of all the time where Geralt and his fantasies are concerned. </p><p>   Jaskier ducks out onto the cool air of this early October morning and savors the first few lungfuls, sweet after hours stuffed inside the body-humid heat of the tavern. He watches his breath ghost up to mingle and perish with the stars. It’s a clear night, not many stars can be seen, but a few manage to poke through the neon veil of light pollution.</p><p>   Off to his left, Jaskier hears the husk of whispered voices, one a familiar sexy undertone. It catches his ear like an itch, carried unintentionally to him by the clear night. He catches, “...two hundred up front. And I’ll give you the same again when I have confirmation it’s done.”</p><p>   Jaskier decides then and there that he doesn’t want to know and home sounds very good. He puts his head down and begins making a clip down the main drag, headed for his bed and his plant and his uncomplicated schedule with demanding, unfeeling harpies who pose as college professors. He may look a little bit when he passes by the mouth of the alley. Anyone would. It’s just the smallest peek, just to sate his curiosity.</p><p>   It’s an unlit sidestreet, not much more than a few trashcans and a service road just big enough to fit a small delivery truck. Jaskier can’t make out much more than the shape of two figures, one paunchy and with a full beard. The other with long, pale hair. Jaskier gets a second, and more insistent, warning from his brain: this is a conversation he needs to not be seeing, right as his toe catches on a loose stone. It rattles loudly enough that both men abruptly stop and look in his direction.</p><p>   Jaskier jerks his face forward again, nearly leaning into a sprint and knocks headfirst into a man’s muscly chest. He reels back and blinks owlishly up into angry eyebrows and thin lips, pressed into a tight frown.</p><p>   “Watch where you’re fucking going.” The man’s bodyguard, or...maybe bodyguard? It could be a boyfriend. Could be a <em>friend</em> friend. He's probably a bodyguard. He grasps Jaskier by the arm and hauls him a few stumbling paces backward.</p><p>   “Sorry.” Jaskier babbles, his head bright with panic. “I didn’t see you there. I hope I didn’t ruin your...suit?” He frowns. The guy he crashed into is wearing a suit, and not in that hip, jacket, sans tie kind of way; he’s sewn into some black three-piece compilation that looks utterly divine and Jaskier estimates is worth a small fortune. Gold gleams at his cuffs and colored light reflects mutely off the leather of his mouthwatering oxfords.</p><p>   Not exactly pub attire.</p><p>   “Sorry.” He says again. He puts his hands up apologetically, or, well, tries to. He’s still got hold of his guitar with one hand, and his other is pretty well stuck in the grip of Mr. Scary-Bodyguard-boy-friend-friend-Guy, so it probably ends up looking more like an uncoordinated flail than anything else. This is so not how he thought his night was going to go, definitely on track with the beating and/or possible lynching, just not by Yennefer, which is supremely relieving and disappointing.</p><p>   “Emreis.” Geralt is stepping out of the alley and inserting himself between Jaskier and the two besuited antagonists, and yes, that’s how Jaskier is going to describe them in his head from now on. They are definite antagonist material. If he were the epic-ballad writing type, he would be furiously reconstructing this ordeal in his head as the dashing rescue of an innocent bystander from a nefarious, if well dressed, pack of nerdowells. But...well...he isn’t. So instead he sort of just stands there and lets himself be manhandled out of the way by Geralt and his mighty, mighty, innocent bystander saving hands.</p><p>   Why doesn’t he write ballads again?</p><p>   “Geralt.” ‘Three-pieces and a glower’ says with the slightest dip of his head to Jaskier’s white-haired interloper.</p><p>   Geralt uses the hand on Jaskier’s shoulder to guide him out of the bodyguards’ grasp. “This sotted excuse for a fool is Yennefer’s entertainment, and, while I’m sure you can agree it wouldn’t be too large a loss to the world if he were turned into a puddle, I’m certain he meant no disrespect to your person.”</p><p>   “I beg your pardon-” Jaskier starts to say indignantly and Geralt’s hand tightens on his shoulder. A lot. Jaskier’s mouth snaps shut again.</p><p>   Emreis, who’s looking more and more like one of those old-school mob bosses the longer Jaskier looks at him, draws himself up even taller, peering down his proud nose at Jaskier and Geralt. He sniffs finally and waves a dismissive hand.</p><p>   “I didn’t take the white wolf for a good Samaritan.” He says as he steps around them, his minion falling into pace behind him.</p><p>   Jaskier watches them until they’ve disappeared into Mustachios and then lets out the breath he’d been holding for what feels like hours. He wants, suddenly, a dignified collapse and a hug in that order, but settles for running a shaky hand through his hair. He’s unsettled and can’t really point to any concrete reason as to why.</p><p>   “Thanks.” He breathes and offers Geralt a smile. “Sorry to interrupt your…thing.” He starts to gesture toward the alley then stops when he realizes what he's doing. He swallows and tries again.</p><p>   “Anyway, I should get home. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” He’s not expecting an answer. He certainly isn’t expecting the weight of Geralt’s hand to slide down and arrest his motion, or the corresponding monotone growl.</p><p>   “Will you be alright getting home?”</p><p>   Jaskier isn’t sure exactly what’s happening, except that something sketchy might’ve just been happening in the alley and he’d narrowly escaped being assaulted? And Geralt, his low-high key crush saved him, but was also, as previously mentioned, possibly just in the middle of some shady shit? So while inner 15 year-old Julian Pankratz is supplying him with all of the worst porno lines: 'Why yes, sir, come on in.', current Jaskier really just wants to be out of there right the everlovingfuck now. So he gives Geralt a brisk nod.</p><p>   “Thanks.” He repeats and hurries down the street.</p><p>   Geralt doesn’t reply, which is okay. Jaskier is super okay with that, he just wants to go home. His buzz is long gone and his mood has soured significantly, but things like that tend to happen when one has a close shave with, you know, being assaulted, or whatever the fuck just didn't happen to him. It’s a testament to just how jittery and on edge Jaskier is, he keeps hearing the sound of footsteps behind him all the way home, even though when he looks he doesn’t see anyone suspicious. One sort of sketchy looking guy does seem to be following him for a few blocks, but by the time Jaskier really works himself up to fingering the pepper spray on his keyring and the emergency call on his phone, the guys has vanished completely and doesn’t return. And if the footsteps do, they at least have the decency to keep it down.</p><p>   Once safely inside his apartment, Jaskier plants himself face first on his second-hand couch and decides that moving is not happening again today. In fact, moving off this couch any sooner than Monday morning seems overly optimistic. He feels tired and jittery and he wants to forget this whole fucking day, but every time he closes his eyes all he can see is that man in the suit, the expanse of Geralt’s shoulder like a wall between them, feels the heft of Geralt’s strong hand on his shoulder.</p><p>   Jaskier groans and slumps over onto his back. He stares at the blank canvas of ceiling while feelings make a dizzy compilation in his head. Technically nothing happened. But nothing <em> didn’t </em> happen either. Jaskier never felt in danger before when he went to Yennefer's, and he doesn’t know whether he should feel as shaken as he does; if the fact that he does means anything, or if he’s letting his admittedly overactive imagination read subtext into a harmless interlude.</p><p>   “Dammit.” He grinds his palms into his eyes until colors burst bright behind his eyelids. He’s tired, he decides. He’s tired and dehydrated and he’ll feel a whole lot better in the morning.</p><p>   He goes to his tiny kitchen and pours himself a glass of water, makes himself drink the whole thing and one more before ambling to his bedroom and tucking himself into a mire of tangled blankets and falling into a mercifully dreamless sleep. </p><p>   When he wakes up the next morning he’s no more certain about what happened, but it’s easier to tell himself that it was a simple misunderstanding. He does text Yennefer between his music history class and Theories of Musical Composition, asks her if she’s ever heard of anyone named ‘Emreis’. She texts him back a few hours later, when he’s in a piano soundbooth and working through a passage of La Campanella because he’s hit a wall with his own work - it seems the well of terror has dried up a bit - and he still has an hour left to waste before his professor’s office hours start. It contains seven words:</p><p>   <strong><em>‘He's no one you need to worry about.’</em></strong> Which Jaskier can’t decide is meant to be comforting or alarming. Considering it’s Yennefer...well, actually he isn’t sure adding that context helps either. He can’t actually be working, have been working for the last two years, in a mob bar. He would have noticed something suspicious before now <em>surely</em>. And just like that his mind’s made up. Of course he hasn’t been working at a mob bar. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s just a friendly, divey sort of pub where people of all shapes and sizes mingle, a cosmopolitan just sharing a drink, some conversation and a little music to pass the time. And Geralt’s whispered conversation? He’s probably a mechanic. Or a model. Or an athlete. Or any number of things that ridiculously handsome, well-built men can be that garner large amounts of money in whispered conversations in back alleys.</p><p>   Yes. That’s all it is. Jaskier had simply made the mistake of walking into one of those temperamental rich types who feel the need to piss their influence on others they think are beneath them - as if Jaskier hasn't had any experience with those, Uncle Terry. - and Geralt had been a good Samaritan and stepped in before things could get out of hand.</p><p>   What’s actually disappointing, and what he never tells Yennefer, is that he notices the table in the corner is empty when he comes back to play that next Saturday. He doesn’t see Emreis or his lackey again, but that table stays empty for the next three weeks. And while the former makes him indelibly happy, the latter makes him far more maudlin than it has perhaps any right to, considering Jaskier's had two total conversations with the man.</p><p>   He still pines.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p>
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</p><p>   Autumn drags on with icy intent, forcing everyone in the city to add two more layers to their already considerable routine, and reminding Jaskier why it is that he flies South for the winter every year.</p><p>   “Did you get the itinerary I emailed you?” His mother’s head asks from his laptop screen. “I made sure to forward a copy of the confirmation to you, so if you haven’t I’ll call the airline and have them send it again.”</p><p>   “I got it last night.” Jaskier tells her. “Thanks.”</p><p>   “Well,” She goes on as if he hadn’t said anything, “...Elyse will be glad to see you, she asks for you every day, no matter how many times I tell her your winter break isn’t for another two months.”</p><p>   “Is she there?” Jaskier leans in close to the lit blue light which sits atop his monitor, a giddy little smile already stretching his mouth. His mother glances over her shoulder and calls. Then, in a flurry of scampering feet another face appears beside his mother’s, this one round with baby fat and framed by bobbing dark curls.</p><p>   “Hello princess.” Jaskier smiles wider. His sister grins back and waves both hands at the camera. She’s missing one of her front teeth. He suddenly has the melody to ‘All I Want For Christmas’ running through his head.</p><p>   “Hi.”</p><p>   “How are you doing? How’s school?”</p><p>   She turns suddenly shy and ducks her head into their mother’s neck, peering at him with one baby blue eye. “Okay.” She mumbles.</p><p>   Sensing he’s not going to get a lot more information on this topic, he switches tacks. “I’m planning on coming home to visit.” He says coxingly. “Would you like that?”</p><p>   She nods, but keeps shy and Jaskier’s heart melts a little more. His sister was the happiest of accidents, even if she’d robbed him of his coveted status as lastborn.</p><p>   “Now?” She asks.</p><p>   Jaskier laughs, a little sad himself that he couldn't walk out his front door and into their living room. “Not quite yet. I’ve still got to go to school for a little while longer. But I promise that I’ll fly over to you as soon as I can.” He makes soaring motions with his arms and motor noises with his mouth, utterly unselfconscious. She rewards him with a giggle and then plugs her thumb squarely in her mouth.</p><p>   “Okay.” She talks around it.</p><p>   “Elyse Angelica, you spit that out this instant.” His mother sounds utterly scandalized and Elyse whips the thumb back out again to hide it behind her back, her eyes wide in surprise as though she'd forgotten their mother was even there.</p><p>   “Julian, dear, we have to go.” His mother says, sounding entirely put upon, “We have a luncheon with the Joneses at two.”</p><p>   “Of course.” Jaskier smiles, then crowds into the camera shouting. “Give me a hug before I go, Monster.” And gives a gigantic roar that is drown out rather impressively by the volume of his sister’s corresponding articulation as she swallows the feed with her face, she probably actually hugs the computer. </p><p>   Their mother’s eyes are pinned to the ceiling when Elyse pulls away enough that Jaskier can see anything besides grainy cheek. She sighs, but says nothing, likely wondering how she managed to sire two such incomprehensibly ridiculous children.</p><p>   “Fare thee well, my ladies.” Jaskier presses a kiss to his palm and holds it out to the screen. “Until we meet again.”</p><p>   His mother’s expression softens. She smiles at him, no less indulgent and fond then she was when he was four and emptied out the pantry cupboard for the purpose of banging wooden spoons against the glassware and soup pots.</p><p>   “Goodbye, Julian. Be safe.” She says and ends the call.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p>
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</p><p>   “You’ve been moping.” Triss says that Saturday. Jaskier straightens up, a little offended. It isn’t as though he’s spent the last three weeks wandering the streets, ringing his hands and wailing broken hearted ballads about ships in the night or star-crossed love. He may have composed a love-lorn stand of lyrics about two strangers on a train, but that is well hidden inside his portfolio and has absolutely nothing to do with either the distant ache in his chest, or his new preference for blond bears.</p><p>   Nothing.</p><p>   They are really good lyrics though.</p><p>   “I beg your pardon.” He says, prim, and drops down into a seat at the bar. He looks up his nose at her. Her smirk doesn’t diminish in the slightest.</p><p>   “If you were any more obvious, you’d have painted a sign to hang around your neck.” She says, grabbing up a tumbler and two bottles of clear liquid, moving with the steady grace of someone well-tuned to their craft.</p><p>   Jaskier sniffs again. He doesn’t have a response for her though, none that wouldn’t sound ridiculous or unnecessarily defensive. ‘The lady doth protest too much’ and all that.</p><p>   “It’s just a stupid little crush.” He says to the room. He can’t meet her eyes. Triss is as opposite Yennefer as it’s possible to be, the sun to Yennefer’s corresponding moon, and all the silly, overwrought, metaphorical comparisons that description entails. It makes it, easier, if not <em>easy</em>, to tell her the truth.</p><p>   “I’ve been over actual relationships before, ones in which I’ve had copious amounts of great sex, so I’m certain this flotsom bit of unconsumated frippery will go away soon enough.” He waves his fingers in the air, a gesture that means exactly nothing. “In the meantime, I’ll wallow a bit longer and enjoy the fruits of a bruised if not broken heart, creatively speaking.”</p><p>   “What are you going to do when he comes back?” Triss asks, not unkindly, and manages to get - as always - directly to the heart of the issue.</p><p>   And. Well, Jaskier hadn’t thought about that. He’s pretty sure there will be some angst, followed by some pining, a good deal of pining, which would then lead to some ill-advised and awkward conversation wherein Jaskier would thoroughly humiliate himself and be forced to consume copious amounts of alcohol and/or Häagen-Dazs in order to cope with the inevitable broken heart that will follow. </p><p>   Which is, of course, precisely when Geralt walks into the pub’s front door. Because the universe is a fickle, petty little bitch and she’s had it in for Jaskier ever since he’d gotten to kiss the love of his life, Tony Montgomery, in the seventh grade and then told the next day that Tony’s father’s company had moved the family to Dubai overnight. </p><p>   “Oh shit.” Jaskier breathes.</p><p>   Geralt is just as breathtakingly beautiful as Jaskier remembers. Moreso even, because standing near the entry, shaking the snow off his coat, Jaskier is able to see the whole of him, tip to toe without a table in the way. The last time he’d not been in the state of mind to appreciate the vista with the appropriate amount of awe such artistry deserved. This time though...Good lord and butter, but Geralt could crush Jaskier’s skull between his thighs, and the sweet supple line of his profile is so utterly sublime it would make Greek poets weep for their inability to capture such perfection in verse. In fact, the gods themselves must’ve had a hand in molding that ass. It’s just so pert and round and...grabbable. Jaskier imagines that Geralt would probably kill anyone who tried to grab his ass.</p><p>   But what a way to go.</p><p>   Geralt tosses a glance to the empty stage before he prowls over to his unoccupied table in the corner. Prowls. Like a panther. Or some other big, sleek, predatory cat. Yennefer was right. His every particle screams ‘bad news’. </p><p>   “Oh fuck.” Jaskier breaths out, in the same way anyone else would have said ‘oh well’ and gets up.</p><p>   “Where are you going?” Triss asks, her tone says she knows full well.</p><p>   “Nowhere.” Jaskier says and sits back down. He doesn’t look at Triss. He can tell she’s smiling anyway. He looks over his shoulder, back at the bar. Down at his hands, folded neatly. Back over his shoulder. He gets up.</p><p>   “And now?” Triss grins.</p><p>   “To make a terrible mistake.” Jaskier smiles at her, all bravado and cheer and swaggers his way across the pub before he can think better of it. As before, Geralt is well aware of him by the time he’s gotten to his table, and watches every move with those glowing amber eyes. And, as before, he says absolutely nothing.</p><p>   “Hello again.” Jaskier says. “Jaskier, if you recall. We met a few weeks ago. I’m the singer. You rescued me from a bit of trouble, thank you for that by the way.”</p><p>   “I know who you are.” Geralt growls and fuck a duck that should not turn Jaskier on as much as it does, but it really, <em>really</em> does. He’d thought he was well and truly acquainted with all of his sexual proclivities, embarrassing and otherwise, but he apparently hadn’t tapped into a very particular, very sexy, well named Geralt. Who apparently knows who he is. Of course he does.</p><p>   Jaskier brushes imaginary hair out of his eyes. “Right. Of course you do. And I know who you are, you’re Geralt, though I sort of overheard that, it wasn’t you introducing yourself, so...maybe you’d prefer I pretend we’re still strangers-”</p><p>   “I don’t care what you do.” Another growl, “So long as you do it quietly. And away from me.”</p><p>   For a second, Jaskier actually believes it. But that second passes and then a slow smile creeps across his lips, blooming into a grin and a laugh.</p><p>   “You almost had me.” Jaskier says, waggling his finger. “Now, you are very good at playing the impassive, unfeeling boogeyman, sitting here in the corner with your beer and your carefully cultivated grump, but I’ve gotten a peek behind the curtain. I know your secret.”</p><p>   Geralt’s lips part and Jaksier can’t honestly decide if it’s meant to be a snarl or a smile and gives his upper lip an odd curl that really shouldn’t work, but somehow makes him want to lean across the table and kiss it until it goes away. And get massacred, but well...pros and cons. </p><p>   Anyway. So Geralt ‘<em> smarls’ </em> and plants his elbows on the table and leans forward all intimidating and says, “Enlighten me.”</p><p>   So what else can Jaskier do but plant his own hands on the opposite edge of the table and lean in to whisper, “Buy me a drink.”</p><p>   Geralt laughs. Well, it’s more like a condescending little snort-chuckle, but it still fucking makes Jaksier’s stomach flip and his pulse pound. He hasn’t been so proud of himself since third grade when he’d beaten that little bitch, Kelsey Wilks, out of the star solo.</p><p>   Jaskier is perfectly capable of admitting he is a petty, petty man.</p><p>   He may get a plaque made.</p><p>   “You’re either very brave, or very stupid.” Geralt is saying. Gravelling. Fuck Jaskier running. </p><p>   “And you,” Jaskier tilts his head, “...look very lonely.” He says it flippantly, like he isn’t entirely serious. And then Jaskier thinks about it and actually, yeah, he kind of does. Jaskier likes people. He needs and feeds and thrives off of people, reads them, studies them, plays (literally and figuratively) to them. Geralt, for all his clearly carefully cultivated calluses, is just the same as any of them.</p><p>   And Geralt. Somehow. Is lonely.</p><p>   Before Geralt can open his mouth to offer more monosyllabic denials or cries for attention veiled in sullen, broody machismo, Jaskier smiles and tries again, “Buy me a drink, Geralt.”</p><p>   Geralt shakes his head. The smile’s gone. “Go away, mistral. Ply your charms on someone who will appreciate them.”</p><p>   Part of reading people is knowing the proper time to bluff and the proper time to fold. This is folding time. Jaskier let’s the ‘minstrel’ comment pass - though he has a thousand delicious retorts on the tip of his tongue - takes his hands off the table and begins backing away slowly, his arms raised placatingly in the air.</p><p>   “Okay,” He says, “...if you’re sure. This offer will only be good for so long. Going once...going twice...gone! Ah well, maybe next time, Sour Patch.”</p><p>   He shrugs and waves and heads back to the bar, only a little disappointed when Geralt doesn’t call him back. </p><p>   Triss’ eyebrows have just about vanished they’re so high up her forehead. She’s also laughing. At Jaskier. </p><p>   “You’re an utter moron.” She says fondly. Then. “Come on then, how did it go? You're still alive. That's something.”</p><p>   Jaskier sighs and slumps onto the bartop, blinking up at the brown-skinned goddess through a delirious smile and declares. “If my heart isn’t broken by December, it will not be my fault.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p>
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</p><p>   October ends in a flurry of dried leaves and scattered snow. Classes are had, costume parties attended, drunken hook-ups hooked. </p><p>   Jaskier wakes up around two in the afternoon on All Saints Day in Fil’s spare room with a nasty hangover, and wearing a costume he’s pretty sure isn’t his; not that he doesn’t make an absolutely devastating Alice in Wonderland, it just wouldn’t have been his first choice is all. His friend and grad student mentor - bless Fil’s altruistic heart - doesn’t make him walk home in it, despite his girlfriend’s chortled encouragement. Sadly, Jaskier’s Spider Man costume is a total loss. His ass looked great in it too.</p><p>   But the woes of misbegotten hosiery are soon swallowed by the specter of finals looming great on the horizon. The campus goes from bustle to tizzy in the span of a week, all the students, slackers and not, cramming themselves into whatever limited space is available to finish whatever recordings, compositions or choreography is still in need of their various artistic attentions. Battle becomes commonplace over the coveted sound booths and practice rooms, especially when one’s future as an international pop sensation is on the line. Or at least the future of Jaskier's EP. Which may have a whole lot more ambiguous references to pining love then is critically palatable for his first public release. But hey, if T Swizzle can do it...</p><p>   “If that baritone harpy, Kevin Dawkins, tries to come into my booth early one more time,” Jaskier complains the next Saturday, his voice climbing with every word, “...I may have to do something drastic.”</p><p>   Yennefer, who Jaskier didn’t think was listening to him, nods and pouts her lips as she manages a dozen different orders at once.</p><p>   “You could come and practice here.” She offers, capping a tumbler and shaking it vigorously. “The pub doesn’t open until two in the afternoon on weekdays and you know the set up. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s quiet and no one would bother you.”</p><p>   Jaskier is taken momentarily aback. “Thank you.” He manages. “I don’t know what to say.”</p><p>   “Just get your ass on stage.” Yennefer says with a shake of her head and rolling eyes, but she’s wearing a smile underneath. “Go on.”</p><p>   Jaskier winks and makes his way to the stage. He lets himself look at the corner table, just once, just to confirm Geralt is still sitting in his usual spot, like he has been for the last three Saturdays. It maybe shouldn’t feel as special as it does, knowing that Geralt sits and listens to him every night he comes to play, but Jaskier, as previously established, is not beyond irrational rationale. The fact that he comes back every weekend and stays the whole way through has to mean <em> something</em>, right?</p><p>   Applause erupts as Jaskier steps into the light and it warms him, as it ever does, and prompts a smile.</p><p>   “Good evening all.” He ducks down to speak into the microphone. He gets a few woops in return while he pulls out his guitar and situates himself on his stool, fingers already going through the automatic motions of tuning. He half listens while he talks, trying to hype whoever is listening with a little - he hopes - humorous banter.</p><p>   “I’m going to start us off with a classic.” He says, then, before he can think better of it, “This one is dedicated to the Sour Patch in the corner. You know the one.”</p><p>   This prompts a rather large round of laughter from the crowd and Jaskier can’t help but join. He can practically feel Yennefer rolling her eyes, but it’s worth it when he comes down for the night and just catches the sight of Geralt leaving out the front door.</p><p>   He’d stayed. Despite the needling, he'd stayed. Jaskier can't wipe the smile off his face the whole rest of the night.</p><p>   Sour patch indeed.</p><p>
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</p><p>   “Mr. Pankratz, do you have a moment?” Professor Reynolds’ call catches Jaskier at the door of the lecture hall. His ‘Mechanics of Composition’ teacher finds a place in one of the fold-down front row seats and gestures for Jaskier to join him.</p><p>   Jaskier sits, gingerly and a bit leery. “What can I do for you, Mr. Reynolds?” He clears his voice when it comes out a bit high with nerves. He’s running his mind back, to try and figure out if he’d forgotten to turn in something that was due.</p><p>   “There’s no need for worry, Mr. Pankratz.” His Professor assures him with a smile. “I’ve recently been made aware of a rather fantastic opportunity and I thought of you. You’re a Performance Art major, is that right?”</p><p>   “That’s right.” Jaskier has to clear his throat a second time.</p><p>   “Well, the school has received a call, can I assume you’ve heard of the New Yorker?” </p><p>   Jaskier, suddenly unable to form words, finally manages a nod. Professor Reynolds’ smile widens.</p><p>   “Well, a reporter expressed an interest in interviewing a handful of Seniors we considered ‘promising’. If you’re so inclined, I’d be happy to put your name forward.”</p><p>   Jaskier lunges for the man’s hand, grasping and pumping it furiously between his own. “Thank you, sir, Professor Reynolds. I can’t...I have no words to express the depth of my...you can’t imagine how much I…”</p><p>   Reynolds is grinning from ear to ear. “A simple ‘thank you’ is quite sufficient, Mr. Pankratz. And a demo tape by the end of the week.”</p><p>   “Absolutely.” Jaskier springs up and all but sprints for the doors where his manners catch up with him and he pauses to straighten his spine and his face.</p><p>   “Thank you for the opportunity, Professor.”</p><p>   Reynolds has his fore knuckle over his mouth. He gives Jaskier a careless wave and chuckles when Jaskier dashes out of the hall, the flame of opportunity dancing at his heels.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p>
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</p><p>   “This is some good shit.” Dara says through a mouthful of burrito. He’s nodding at the screen filled with jagged lines that Jaskier objectively knows is his music, but can’t parse any understanding of it beyond that, or for that matter, how Dara can glean any measure of value from it. One of the many reasons he got in bed with the Sound Editing Department as soon as he learned what it was.</p><p>   Metaphorically speaking.</p><p>   “Of course.” Jaskier agrees amiably. “Do you think you could get me a tape by the end of the week?”</p><p>   Dara glances at him and takes another bite. “Hundred bucks.”</p><p>   “You’re a gentleman, a scholar, and a crook.” Jaskier shakes his hand. “It’s a pleasure, as always.”</p><p>   “Just the usual?” Dara asks.</p><p>   “Yes, I want to keep it raw.” Jaskier replies, hefting his book bag and guitar case across his shoulders. He’s got a bus to catch. He gives his friend’s arm a light smack.</p><p>   “I’ll get you your money by the end of the week.”</p><p>   “Cool.” Dara calls distractedly after him, overlarge headphones on, already mixing.</p><p>   Despite the cold, Jaskier finds himself crossing the mall with a near literal skip in his step. He’s going to have his first EP by the end of the week, released for public consumption and critique. He probably ought to be terrified, but all Jaskier can think is that Friday feels too fucking far away right now. </p><p>   “Oh, fuck.” He says out loud, turning a few heads in his direction. “I don’t have a cover.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p>
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</p><p>   “How the fuck should I know what to make your cover?” Yennefer frowns, sounding offended that Jaskier would even ask her. Triss at least, looks thoughtful.</p><p>   “Does the album have a theme?” She asks.</p><p>   “Don’t encourage him.” Yennefer chides. Triss ignores her, bless. Jaskier always did like her better.</p><p>   “It’s pretty upbeat.” Jaskier pulls up a seat at the bar, planting his chin atop his cross arms. “A collection of folksy tunes based on some old wives tales and urban legends running through Europe in the 14th century.”</p><p>   Triss looks intrigued. “Was this just a school project?”</p><p>   Jaskier waves a hand. “All Music Performance Seniors are encouraged to have at least one digital portfolio to submit as part of their capstone. I've already got a few, more traditional compilations, so I wanted to make something different this time. And I've always found those sorts of old, gritty tales fascinating.”</p><p>   “It does sound interesting.” Triss smiles. Yennefer hums. Jaskier can't tell if it's meant to be encouraging or derisive. Triss ignores her. “So do you have any ideas at all for the cover?”</p><p>   “I could just color it black and put my name on it.” Jaskier sighs, “But I don’t want to do that. I want something grand, something rustic, something that screams ‘This is Jaskier, buy him, fall in love with him.’”</p><p>   “That’s not a bad caption, if you ever decide to branch out as a singing call boy.” Yennefer puts in mildly. “If you ever find yourself lacking cash.”</p><p>   “I’d rather peddle my music then my ass.” Jaskier returns haughtily.</p><p>   Yennefer snorts. “I’ll tell you which one I think is worth more.”</p><p>   “Shouldn’t you,” Triss hastily puts in, “...be practicing?”</p><p>   “I can afford to take one afternoon off.” Jaskier sits up straight, glaring at Yennefer. “Now what’s this about my music?”</p><p>   A knock - really more of a pounding - at the door interrupts before Yennefer can do more than open her mouth, glee glinting in her violet eyes. All three figures at the bar turn and by the time the door’s opening to let a swirl of snow in, Yennefer’s already halfway to it.</p><p>   Geralt steps inside, snow dusting the shoulders of his coat, a great beast of a black shearling. Jaskier could probably fit himself plus a friend inside it and be perfectly cozy. And now he has that fantasy to play with. He sends thanks skyward and looks his fill while Yennefer and Geralt have a hushed conference in the entryway.</p><p>   Jaskier frowns. There’s a whole lot of head shaking going on and Yennefer’s doing that thing she doesn’t when she doesn’t want to yell, but a little bit’s starting to poke through anyway. He hears his name and Geralt’s head shoots up, looking straight at Jaskier before grimacing and turning back to say something else to Yennefer. Whatever it is she clearly doesn’t like it and she gives a single, final, shake of her head which garners the single most furious look from Geralt that Jaskier has ever seen and he barks her name, but Yennefer is already walking back toward the bar. Geralt snarls after her and exits in a flurry of sheepskin and simmering rage. </p><p>   “What was that ab-” Yenneferl’s eyes flick to Jaskier and he swallows the rest of the sentence reflexively. He clears his throat. “I think I should go.”</p><p>   “I think that’s a good idea.” Yennefer says, suddenly and inexplicably terse. She pushes past the bar through the door to where the kitchen and the offices are located.</p><p>   “Right.” Jaskier says to no one in particular and lets the air turn awkward while he packs and swaddles. Triss at least looks apologetic.</p><p>   “I’m so sorry, Jaskier. Yen’s always been over-sensitive about...exes.”</p><p>   It’s a lie, and an obvious one from someone clearly unused to telling them. But Jaskier doesn’t contradict her, just nods and packs up his stuff and leaves without really saying goodbye. He spends the whole rest of the day, the train ride back to his apartment, the overhot shower, the sleepless night, wondering if he was overreacting.</p><p>   And if he’d imagined the blood on Geralt’s knuckles. Or in his hair.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Did I say 30,000? I meant 50,000.<br/>This chapter is a bit more intense, it contains depictions of maiming and violence. Nothing permanent happens to Jaskier, or any Main Character, and there's nothing more violent than you would see in the series, but I thought I'd put a disclaimer. I don't want to surprise anyone. <br/>Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier lets it ride. He lets it ride for two whole days. Finally, on the third day, when he can’t bear it anymore, he texts Yennefer.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <b>
    <em> I’m going to ask you something and you are going to be 100% honest with me.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>   Her reply comes a few hours later in the middle of ‘Conservatory in the Modern Age’. It reads simply: </span>
  <b>
    <em>You can ask.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>   Do I work at a mob bar?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>   This time the response is immediate. </span>
  <b>
    <em>No.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>   It’s then that Jaskier realizes the rather large flaw in his plan. Which is Yennefer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   He sends back a quick: </span>
  <b>
    <em>You’re not lying to me, right?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>   Yennefer replies. </span>
  <b>
    <em>No.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier frowns, narrows his eyes and arches an eyebrow at a woman who isn’t there to appreciate it, or the emotional devastation he’s going through. </span>
  <b>
    <em>Okay</em>
  </b>
  <span>. </span>
  <b>
    <em>Then can you explain why there was blood in Geralt’s hair? And for that matter, why you were so adamant I stay away from him.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>   Yennefer doesn’t respond for the rest of the day, which does absolutely nothing to ease the tenuous grasp Jaskier has on his chill. By the time he’s crawling into bed that night, he’s worked himself up into enough of a frenzy he texts. </span>
  <b>
    <em>Oh my god, is Geralt a serial killer and that’s why you warned me not to mess with him? Because you really secretly do care what happens to me and you didn’t want me to be his next sex-dungeon, murder-basment victim?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>   Yes.</em>
  </b>
  <span> She texts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier is both upset that Yennefer is choosing to text him back now, and that she’s being sarcastic while he is clearly trying to have a serious conversation. Then he has a thought. He’s sort of horrified at himself for thinking it, but he can’t unthink it after he has, and he frantically thumbs back.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <b>
    <em> Oh my god, no. Is Geralt a gigolo? A kept man? A sugar baby? Because, firstly, that is significantly less terrifying than him being a super-sexy serial killer. And second, would you happen to know what his rates are.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>   He quickly follows this with.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>   Purely for research purposes and definitely not to hire him for any erotic and consensually naughty purposes. </em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>   He follows this with. </span>
  <b>
    <em>Okay, I can’t promise that.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>   Yennefer calls him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Julian. Listen to the words I’m about to say.” She’s speaking slowly, like Jaskier is a particularly dimwitted child. “You. Do not work at a mob bar. I do not </span>
  <em>
    <span>own</span>
  </em>
  <span> a mob bar. Geralt is a bastard and a serious piece of work and he would wreck you. To dust. Not in a fun way. So I warned you to stay away from him. A warning you ignored. I then hoped that Geralt would be a fucking adult and tell you to fuck off, but clearly that’s beyond both of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Before Jaskier can do more than feel indignant and mildly chastened, Yennefer goes on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Geralt was out hunting, Jaskier. He caught something and the moron wanted to dump the carcass in my freezer because he didn’t have time to deal with it that night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   She sighs. “Does that clear away all the shit you had festering in your tiny brain?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier takes a long, deep breath and exhales his affirmation. “I suppose it does. Yes.” Then he says, a bit more quietly, “Thanks, Yennefer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   She snorts. “Go to sleep, Julian.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   She hangs up before he can say ‘goodnight’, or anything else equally, unacceptably affectionate. Jaskier smiles at the lit up screen until his phone fades to black. He’s delighted to find his turbulent thoughts have similarly quieted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   What she said about Geralt makes a lot of sense. He seemed like the sort of guy who would enjoy outdoor sports, hunting and fishing and being stereotypically macho. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier’s mind dials back to that afternoon at the bar. He frowns, trying to recall if there’d been blood on Geralt’s coat and pants. He can’t decide. His memory of that moment is narrowed to fragments of awareness, the skin of Geralt’s knuckles, the hair clumped in thick red-dried-black strands against his neck, the surprise in his eyes when he’d turned to look at Jaskier, just before the shutters had slammed closed and Geralt had turned away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Did people usually get so frantic about storing deer carcasses? Was it a deer? Had Yennefer specified what Geralt killed? Jaskier doesn’t think she did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   He sighs, high and dramatic and pulls the duvet over his head. This is ridiculous. It’s done. Yennefer has answered all of his questions and Geralt is not a serial killer. Rather disappointingly, he is also not a gigolo, but Jaskier’s willing to count it a win evenso. In five years he’s going to look back on this night and laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   He wishes he could laugh about it now.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>   “Here’s your shit, man.” Dara finds Jaskier just outside his last class of the week, and subsequently, before Thanksgiving break. He’s got snow melting in the wild tangle of his hair and caked thickly to the bottom third of his pants. He plops the disc into Jaskier’s palm, grins and waits while Jaskier fishes out his wallet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “I think you mean: my </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> shit.” Jaskier puts the cash into Dara’s waiting palm and clasps the CD to his chest with a soft happy sound. Were CD’s supposed to feel so heavy? Maybe it was the weight of Jaskier’s future that it had riding on it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Here.” Dara taps Jaskier’s arm with a plastic thumb drive. Jaskier shoots him an eyebrow and takes it. “Digital backup.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Dara, I owe you a sonnet.” Jaskier palmed the drive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Nah, man. It was cheap, got a bulk deal at Staples, no sweat. If you need anything else mixed, give me a buzz, yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “You’ll be my first call.” Jaskier assures him, full suddenly, with nervous, restless energy. “If you will excuse me, my good man. I have a date with destiny.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   He’s rushing off before Dara can do more than laugh and shake his head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Why do you keep poking the bear?” Yennefer asks, utterly exasperated, when Jaskier finishes his set for the night. He gulps the water she pushes over to him gratefully. The pre-break lethargy that had infected the campus and turned it into a ghost town had not made its way to this part of the city. Tonight had been boisterous and high-octane, the songs jumping and a bit bawdy, the crowd full of happy energy. Jaskier found it intoxicating. Six hours of it though - even for him - was exhausting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Is this bear metaphorical, literal or colloquial?” Jaskier replies glibly, his voice roughly tumbling over the smile he can’t quiet. That night’s tips are a hefty weight in his pocket, Yennefer’s check crisp and poking into the arch of his foot. He’s fresh off an endorphin high from the audience’s cheers and his professor submitted his demo yesterday with a handshake and a ‘congratulations, Mr.Pankratz’ after they’d listened to it together. Jaskier is in far too good a mood to be put off by Yennefer’s eyebrows of doom. Which she now furrows at him menacingly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “The </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sour Patch</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the corner.” She prods dourly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Oh, that.” Jaskier waves away her concern like cigarette smoke. “He likes it. Hey, do you think I could bring in a few demos next week?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “He likes it.” If Yennefer could bottle a fraction of that dry and put it in her martinis, she’d be able to retire young. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier shrugs. “Well, he hasn’t killed me yet. But the CD’s, Yennefer. Can we focus, please?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Do people even use CDs anymore?” Yennefer sounds sceptical.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Vinyl’s making a comeback.” Triss calls from the far side of the bar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “I only have the CD.” Jaskier pulls the backup out of his rucksack and waves it at her. “And I don’t even know where to get vinyl.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “The same place you’d get a CD.” Yennefer takes the disc from him to study the track list. “I’d assume.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “That’s a huge help.” Jaskier says snarkily and makes a snatch for the CD. Yennefer holds it just out of reach and smirks at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “I’m still reading.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Have you thought about digital downloads?” Triss calls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Yeah, let me get right on that, with all of that technical skills I don’t have.” Jaskier calls back. “I’m not the answers man, Triss, I just sing and look pretty. I’m perfectly happy to leave all the…” He wiggles his fingers like he’s casting some sort of arcane enchantment, “...to those infinitely more qualified.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Yennefer snorts and hands back the disk. Jaskier sets it aside happily and takes another sip of water. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “There are people who could set that up for you, you don’t have to…” She wiggles her fingers back at him. And yet when she does it Jaskier has the urge to duck under the bar for cover. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “So is that a ‘yes’?” Jaskier asks hopefully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “You can bring your CDs in.” Yennefer shrugs, then smiles, shark sharp. “I expect they’ll sell about as well as you do: better once your audience is properly sloshed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier opens his mouth, but before he can rally the next witty retort, Geralt growls from next to him. “Triss, get me another fucking Altbairisch.” His empty stine clatters onto the bartop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier lets out an embarrassing little ‘eep’ and nearly strains his neck he whips around so fast. Geralt’s close, so close that Jaskier can smell him; not a trace of cologne, just leather and clean sweat and heat. He’s not looking at Jaskier. He’s glaring at Yennefer while Triss grabs a new frosted mug and tips it under one of the myriad taps, making pleasant small talk with another of the  patrons near her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Meanwhile Geralt says, “Yennefer.” Unfailingly mild.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Geralt.” Yennefer says and the tension grows unbearably thick between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier clears his throat. “Hello again, Geralt, how are you doing this fine evening?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Geralt glances at him out of the corner of his eyes, flashing Jaskier a glimpse of hypnotic amber and says. “Well enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier just about swallows his tongue in surprise. “Good.” He smiles, genuinely pleased and feeling a little flushed. He’s so far gone on this man already, it’s a little embarrassing even for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “So, what did you think? Of my performance? You’ve been listening for a while.” He drums his fingers nervously on the bar and worries his lip. “...I seem not to have scared you away at least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Yennefer makes a sound like she’s being strangled from somewhere off to Jaskier’s left, but Geralt picks that moment to face him head on and all at once Jaskier’s got an eye full of very tall, very broad wall made of muscles and white hair and piercing, smoldering eyes. Somehow, somewhere, Geralt got his mug of beer, he must have conjured it, and he’s tipping his head back so Jaskier can see the pale curve of his throat working while he swallows and swallows and swallows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   In that moment, Jaskier wouldn’t have cared if Yennefer managed to set herself on fire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “I’m not the person you should ask.” Geralt says once he’s finished the mug and sets it back with a heavy clack of glass. He makes to leave, but Jaskier, just beginning to collect his scattered brain cells hastily calls after him. “Three words or less?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Unexpectedly. Miraculously. Geralt pauses. He half looks over his shoulder, just enough so Jaskier can see the perfect ridge of his profile, his eyes trained . Finally he grumbles, so quietly Jaskier almost can’t hear him over the ambient conversation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “You do fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   He walks on, pauses at his table to grab his coat and then disappears out the door. When Jaskier swivels around again, Yennefer looks utterly mortified. At Jaskier, presumably. Triss has come over to offer her own pitying amusement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier sighs and lays down on the bar. He is well aware that he looks like the stereotype and he could not possibly find it in himself to care less. Geralt likes his singing. Geralt complimented his music. He can die a happy man.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Are you sure that man isn’t a gigolo?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Triss snorts out a surprised laugh. “I will pay you,” She says, “...to ask him that to his face.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “You’ve had enough.” Yennefer says and takes away his glass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “It’s water.” Jaskier says indignantly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “If you hurry, you could probably catch him.” Triss says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Triss.” Yennefer says sharply. Triss hardly looks chastened. She raises her eyebrows at Yennefer, as if daring her to do something about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier is already packing though, slinging his bag over his shoulder, grabbing the handle of his guitar case - and giving consideration to taking up the piccolo - reaching his hand out to grab his CD. Which is not there. He feels blindly around the bartop. Nothing. Jerks his head up. Still nothing. He glares at Yennefer who holds up her empty hands. He looks at Triss, but he doesn’t really think she’d be so crass as to steal from him. Really, it’s almost preposterous to even think it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Triss offers her own empty hands for his inspection.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Did-” Jaskier whips around to track where Geralt had walked out. Back to the two bartenders who looked very, suspiciously innocent. “Did he…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Yennefer raises her eyebrows. Jaskier can’t bring himself to finish the thought, it’s so utterly ridiculous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “You’re right.” He says and picks up. “I should ask him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier bustles out into the cold, barely registering the temperature dip beyond the feathering of his breath. He scans the streets and sidewalks, never truly empty even at this hour, but he doesn’t see Geralt’s hair or the familiar landmark of his dark shearling among the anonymous faces downcast and milling quickly past. He chances a glance down the alley, his belly tight with apprehension, but it too is empty of any Geralt size persons.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier sighs and kicks at the snow-dusted sidewalk and resignedly heads for home. There’s not much else for it, Geralt’s probably long gone. He wonders if Geralt really did steal his CD, but decides that the very idea of it is preposterous; Yennefer probably took it, planning to pawn it off once Jaskier becomes an international pop success. Or maybe it had been one of the many customers who’d bellied up to the bar in the time Jaskier had the disc out and unattended. Or it could have been nudged off the bar accidentally. Really, there was no reason at all to think…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   ...That Geralt - taciturn, swelteringly hot, potentially a serial killer gigolo, Geralt - had stolen the demo right from under Jaskier’s nose. That would be far too romantic a gesture for someone as habitually introverted as Geralt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   The sound that escapes Jaskier’s mouth is an embarrassing, high-pitched mix between a sigh and a hiccup. He casts a quick eye around himself, expecting to meet critical looks from scandalized strangers, but he’s managed to wander far enough away from the main streets that there are no inconvenient bystanders that Jaskier would have to kill for witnessing any hypothetically mortifying sounds that Jaskier certainly never made while considering another man. Nope. Never happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Dammit, Geralt.” He murmurs and bows his head against a gust of wind. He’s going to look like a snowman by the time he makes it back home. The buildup on the sidewalk is already enough to cap the toes of his boots, muffling the sounds of his footfalls down to a muted rusking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   His ears keep catching something soft behind him that sounds like snow underfoot, but the streets remain empty of people and the fresh snow empty of footprints when he turns to look. A small shivery memory knocks, bringing with it a disconcerting sense of deja vu.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   He quickens his pace, ears pricked, and every few steps he swings a glance over his shoulder, searching the shadows and side streets for signs of a tail. He doesn’t see anyone, but that doesn’t stop him checking, more certain with every look that this time is the time he’s going to see someone sprinting for him. By the time he’s boarding the train, Jaskier is practically vibrating with adrenaline. This isn’t like last time. It’s worse, because this time Jaskier doesn’t have even the tail end of a buzz to soften the razor-edge of anxiety. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   He stares at his reflection in the far window and forces his muscles to unwind one by one. He wonders if maybe he should start taking a cab home, it’s not like he can’t afford it. But he prefers wearing the pretext of the common man, the street musician, the student who plays dive bars for the badly needed money and exposure. Objectively, he understands it’s ridiculous to put on these sorts of airs, but he’s spent so much time unable to be mundane, he loves every second he gets to pretend he's just like everyone else. Before destiny inevitably takes him to the stars of course. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   He puts a hand through his hair, mussing it horribly, and cursing under his breath. He’s starting to feel a little bit ridiculous now that he’s off the street. He hardly looks like the sort of person who’d be carrying a massive billfold. He’s not shabby, he would never let himself stoop to that level of pretentious hipsterdom, but he’s not exactly in this season’s Prada. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   It was probably his imagination. No one had followed him into the station, or approached him on the street. He was fine, and definitely overwrought with nerves for perfectly legitimate reasons. His budding musical career for instance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Which is when Jaskier remembers about the magazine and the demo and then he has a whole other set of anxieties to distract him from thoughts of any stalkers, imagined or otherwise.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>   By Tuesday, Jaskier is officially going out of his mind. With school officially out for the next two weeks and nothing to distract him, he keeps bouncing back and forth between telling himself he doesn’t care about what some two-bit magazine writer thinks about his songs, and sitting in front of his laptop refreshing his email inbox every few seconds, willing an email from his professor to appear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   He’s read through every issue of The New Yorker the library had in the back catalog. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   His only reprieve came in the form of a call from his mother that Monday, checking to see if he’d changed his mind and wanted to come home for the holiday.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Not this year, Mother.” Jaskier smiles. “Please give my apologies to Uncle Roderick and Auntie Catherine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   She sniffs in disapproval. “The rest of the family will be disappointed by your absence this year.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Yes, well, try not to be too jealous of me, mother. If it’s any consolation, I shall be utterly alone and miserable and spend the whole time missing you and the little Monster and utterly beside myself, wishing for Acel’s asparagus.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “You’ll not be attending a...oh, what’s that vogue word...Friendsgiving, Julian?” His mother asks, concern ripe in her voice, “No one should spend the holidays alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier laughs. “Fil’s already invited me. He and his girlfriend and a couple of his friends can’t make it home either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   She nods, properly prim once again. “Good. Well, we expect you back home for winter break at least. Your sister will be devastated if you renege on your promise now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier blows a kiss to his mother, fondness tugging on his heartstrings. “I promise, your songbird will fly back to his nest soon, mother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   For the barest second, her smile grows soft. “Good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   She looks down at the watch on her wrist and sighs. “I have to pick up your sister from her riding lesson. Goodbye, Julian.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “I love you, mother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Be well.” She says and ends the call.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   The next day, Jaskier gets an email from his professor. The subject line contains only three words: </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘He liked it’.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier throws the sheet music he’d been holding into the air with a shriek and dances his way all the way around the living room before he manages to calm down enough to open and read the actual message. As it is he’s still so excited it takes him twice through before his brain catches up enough to decode the short prose.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>   Mr. Isredd requested I forward this to you. Well done, Julian.</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>- - - - - - - - - - - - -</span>
  <b>
    
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>   Dear Mr. Pankratz, </em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>   I recently had the intense pleasure of listening to your most recent studio compilation. As you were no doubt made aware, I am in the process of writing a feature on some of Juilliard's graduating Seniors and to that end, I would consider it an honor if you’d be willing to sit down with me for an interview.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>   My contact information is below, please email me as you feel comfortable, but I look forward to hearing from you soon. </em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>   Best Regards,</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>   Isredd Neis </em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier immediately responds, sending back an elated affirmative for the Monday after next, hits reply, then decides in the breathless aftermath that a celebration is in order. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   He does the only thing he can think to do on a Wednesday afternoon the week before Thanksgiving, having just received the news that his dreams of self-styled international fame may not be so far-fetched: He goes to Mustachios. Jaskier is practically alight with glee, picturing the look on Yennefer’s face when she realizes that Jaskier might actually be making music professionally. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier wants to get absolutely plastered. And maybe flirt with Geralt some more. Okay, </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> flirt with Geralt some more. And get rejected of course. It’s good to keep one’s expectations realistic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   There’s a redhead behind the bar that Jaskier doesn’t recognize, though she’s amiable enough when he engages her in small talk, and the blood orange Mule she mixes him has just enough ginger to make his nose burn on the first sip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Yennefer had to step out,” The redhead, Coral, tells him when he asks, “...but she said she’d be back before the evening rush.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “I suppose I shouldn’t be shocked you get a lot of business even on weeknights.” Jaskier says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Coral shrugs. “Good enough. Nothing like the weekends, but it’s a different sort of client we get on the weekends.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier nods sagely. “The college students and 9 to 5-ers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Coral’s face undergoes a complicated series of metamorphosis before settling into something inscrutable and she says, oddly careful. “We get all kinds here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier doesn’t really know how to respond, so he nods and decides to evade that particular minefield by complimenting the Mule. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Coral doesn’t seem uncomfortable, but she takes the proffered segway and they spend a pleasant while talking drink mixology and the relative hierarchical order of the extensive martini family. Jaskier orders a plate of house fries and works his way through the Vesper she makes him, which he begrudgingly admits is deserving of a solid second place, just ahead of the French martini, but not quite reaching the sensory delight of his beloved espresso. He is well on his way to tipsy when Geralt walks in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   When Jaskier spots him he, full of both good booze and excellent food, waves, big and shameless. “Hello, Sour Patch.” He calls and isn’t bothered in the least by the glare Geralt gives him in response. Jaskier is a Pankratz, he’s weathered more scathing looks from the family cat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “You should take care.” Coral murmurs to Jaskier like she’s worried Geralt will hear her. “He’s not someone you want to piss off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Him?” Jaskier chucks a thumb over his shoulder, “Nonsense.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Just to prove his point he picks up his glass and the tall stein Coral was already loading onto a tray and with an exaggerated wink, sashays over to Geralt’s table. He loads both the drinks and himself down with a coquettish tilt of his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Geralt doesn’t make any move to touch the ale Jaskier pushes toward him. His eyes blaze a quick trail over the musician, like he can read every step Jaskier’s taken that day from the lay of his collar, or the color of his socks. Jaskier can’t exactly say he minds the scrutiny, not when his skin is prickling and tight with awareness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   The door opens, letting in a breath of winter air and a middle-aged man. He pulls well-worn gloves from his red cold fingers before running his hands through salt and pepper hair, passing over brown eyes heavy with shadow. Jaskier only looks a second time because of those eyes. Whatever that guy’s story, Jaskier thinks that there was never a man who needed a drink and a hug more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   He watches as the guy shuffles over to a table on the far end of the room, closer to the stage where Jaskier performed, where three men were already waiting, two standing to each side of some greasy looking dude in a suit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   More suits. Jaskier wonders if it’s a trend and he’s somehow missed the memo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   He realizes he’s still staring then and jerks his eyes forward with an awkward little laugh he meets Geralt’s inscrutable gaze. While Jaskier was busy people-watching, Geralt’s settled himself back against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. And holy shit does that do fantastic things for his biceps. Not that they need the help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier clears his throat and reaches for his drink. Did Coral turn up the thermostat?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “It’s not a Saturday, Jaskier.” Geralt says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “It’s not?” Jaskier exclaims in mock horror and pulls out his phone, inspecting the screen with near manic intensity. Geralt doesn’t appear impressed by the joke, though that’s sort of the default as far as Jaskier can tell. Jaskier puts his phone back down on the table and grins. Behind him the conversation at the far end of the bar is escalating, voices raising and just shy of heated. Jaskier does his best to ignore it. Poor guy can’t catch a break.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “I missed your smiling face.” He tells Geralt before he can think better of it. What </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> Coral put in that Vesper?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Geralt remains unimpressed. “You shouldn’t be here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier sips, affecting an air of aloofness. “You’re dying to know, I can tell. Ask me why I’m here. Ask me why I’m in such a good mood.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Geralt huffs and mutters something under his breath. But it wasn’t a ‘go away’.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier grins and presses. He puts on his sultry voice, the one he likes to drop on bedroom floors and looks up at Geralt through the fan of his lashes. “Buy me a drink, Geralt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Voices across the room spike, sounding a little panicked. Seriously? Can’t Jaskier have two sexy seconds in a row? Is that too much to ask?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “I think you’ve had plenty already.” Geralt growls. “You should go home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “But I have to wait for Yennefer.” Jaskier protests. “That was part of tonight’s plan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Tonight’s plan.” Geralt deadpans.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “To show her my email. I want to savor the moment the light dies in her eyes and she loses all will to live.” This is probably the most Pankratz sentence Jaskier has ever uttered in his life, but whatever, Yennefer would do it for him. That’s what friends are for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Geralt laughs. Jaskier can tell he didn’t mean for it to escape, it’s the tiniest, driest chuckle that’s more a huff of breath, and he immediately clamps his mouth shut, but it’s already far, far too late. Jaskier savors the sound. He feels very warm and he’s smiling like a fool and he gives absolutely zero fucks about any of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Geralt sighs and mutters something else under his breath, shaking his head. Then he says, loud enough for Jaskier to hear. “Come back on Saturday. You can show Yennefer whatever you want to then. Better yet, email it to her and don’t come back here at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier, only a little disappointed - realistic expectations - finishes off his drink and waggles a finger in Geralt’s face. “That trick doesn’t work on me, Geralt. I’m immune to your...meanness. I’m clearly here to spice up your sad, sour patch world.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   If Geralt gets the sad attempt at a reference remix, it doesn’t show on his face. His eyes flicker to a spot over Jaskier’s shoulder and with a slight furrow of his brow gives a single shake of his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier is half-expecting Yennefer to materialize behind him, grabbing him by the ear and pulling him away to the stage, instead he turns to see a rather tall and imposing man standing a little ways off, impatiently waiting for the two of them to finish their conversation. He offers a nod and an impersonal half-smile when he catches Jaskier’s eye, but Jaskier isn’t really paying any attention to that. He’s a bit busy staring at the three livid scars running down one side of the man’s face. Actual ‘Scarface’ was more subtle. Then again, actual Scarface didn’t have the same aura of danger radiating from him, even at the end of the movie when he’d been making his way through a mob with a smile and a machine gun. You really have to work to get that level of menace into a stance. Jaskier feels a thrill of fear, cold as ice, down his spine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Geralt clears his throat and prompts, his voice the slightest bit softer under the gruff. “Go home, Jaskier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   It clicks then. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Geralt was meeting up with this guy, was probably waiting for him this whole time and trying to figure out how to let Jaskier down gently. He’s probably been trying to let Jaskier down gently this whole time without blurting out that Jaskier clearly isn’t his type. Oh shit, he should have seen this coming. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Right.” Jaskier lurches out of the seat and away, tripping a little over his own feet in his haste to get out from between the two hulking men and finishes lamely. “I’ll just...go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   But neither Geralt or his ‘friend’ are paying him any attention. The man with the scarred face is already settling into his seat, hooking and spinning it around with his foot while Geralt leans in to talk to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   It would be stupid to be hurt, but Jaskier is man enough to admit he’s more than a bit bruised as he walks proudly back to the bar. Ah well, he had told Triss he’d get his heart broken. Well done, him. It was Jaskier’s fault he couldn’t take a hint. But Geralt could have been a </span>
  <em>
    <span>little</span>
  </em>
  <span> less vague about not being into him. It’s strange. Jaskier is usually a lot better about reading between the lines than this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier reclaims his stool at the bar and risks one last look at the corner table. Fuck, the calves on that guy. Yup. This has all the hallmarks of turning into something pathetically close to a teen drama. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   The look Coral is giving him is somewhere between pity and admiration. Wordlessly, she raises an eyebrow and tips the glass she’s polishing in askance. Jaskier shakes his head and reaches for his wallet, plopping a few notes onto the bar. His enthusiasm for celebratory drinks has somewhat diminished. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   He probably ought to go home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Coral, my dearest.” He says, putting on a smile and as much manufactured cheer as he can manage, “...you have been an utter delight. If you would be so kind as to pass on my regards to Yennefer…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   The squabbling was getting loud enough that Jaskier has to check no one’s actually throwing punches. No one is, though the man with the sad eyes sounds practically frantic as he gesticulates something to his tablemates, who look utterly bored. Actually, the whole bar looks utterly bored and disinterested in the commotion. They aren’t even looking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Something is very wrong here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “...I’ll see her on Saturday.” He murmurs and slips quietly out of the bar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   The sun’s just setting, casting twilight in a rosy glow that highlights the last lingering dregs of light on the horizon. Jaskier lets the serenity of the moment calm him, tastes the crisp air and slowly unwinds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “This is last time I come here on a fucking Tuesday.” He mutters to an imaginary Yennefer and starts the long walk home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   The door opens behind him before he’s walked more than a dozen steps and the sound of shouting and struggle pulls him up short. He’s standing in the shadow of a building just a little ways past the entrance to the sidestreet. Maybe it’s instinct, maybe it’s all the weirdness from that day, added to the pile of weirdness from before, but Jaskier hears the voices and immediately sidesteps into a storefront, out of sight. It’s definitely curiosity that has him peeking around the doorway to watch the aggressive little processional make its way toward him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   He immediately recognizes the man with the sad eyes and salt and pepper hair, and though it takes a second longer, Jaskier also recognizes his </span>
  <em>
    <span>escort</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the same two men who’d been standing next to his table. The three of them turn just before they get to him and enter the alley, the man’s high, distressed pleading trailing after them. He’s so frantic Jaskier can barely make sense of it, just something about wanting another chance and needing more time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier reaches into his pocket to call 911 and startles when his hand meets with air and not cellphone. He spends a frantic moment searching his person before he remembers he left the fucking thing inside, on Geralt’s table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   First his CD and now his phone. He really needs to stop leaving shit on tables.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Fucking dammit.” Jaskier breathes. He ducks down and darts past the mouth of the street as quickly as he can to get back to Mustachios, chancing a glance down the alley to make sure he isn’t spotted. What he sees stops him dead in his tracks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   The sad man’s laying facedown on the ground, still begging while one of the other two standing over him pulls a gun. And shoots him twice in the head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier doesn’t even have time to call out. The man is simply alive one second and dead the next. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Shit.” He whispers and both men’s heads snap up. He’s caught, framed in the mouth of the alley, there’s no way they don’t see him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Shit.” Jaskier says again, full of frantic energy, and turns to sprint. It’s this movement that saves his life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   He hears the crack of the gunshot and feels a blooming heat along his side. The world spins, a whirl of momentum. Then he’s in the snow, cold kissing one side of his face, with no recollection of getting there. He’s dizzy with pain and he realizes with a flare of nausea that he’s been shot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   The next thought is disjointed scraps of panic, and the certainty that he has to run now or he’s going to die in the snow just like... </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   He manages to scramble to his knees and the vertigo nearly puts him back onto the ground. Desperate, Jaskier crawls toward the lit doorway only a few yards away. He screams, long and loud enough to rival any horror-movie heroine, still scrambling in a near crouch, one hand clutching his side at the place that feels bright with pain and fever-hot. Something warm and wet is sliding over his fingers. He doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t have the chance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Rough hands seize him by the coat, dragging him backward into the alley. Jaskier has a manic moment of surreality where he wonders if this isn’t what it might be like to be pulled into hell, before reality asserts itself with terrible finality. He can’t die like this. He won’t. He made a promise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier lashes out with his whole body. The heel of his heavy winter boot connects with satisfying solidity and one set of hands loosens. Jaskier twists, pushing against the other man’s chest, clawing at any skin he can find and trying to tangle their legs together. By force, or luck or some combination of the two, the second man tumbles to the ground and Jaskier manages to wrench himself free.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   The first goon is standing in his way, and he can hear the second already fighting to get to his feet. Jaskier steps into the man blocking his way and punches. As hard as he has ever punched anyone in his life. The man, taken utterly by surprise, stumbles just enough for Jaskier to slip past, then he’s running for his life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   He knows they’re right behind him. It’s only that certainty that keeps his feet pounding the snow-slick pavement. After a few minutes of full-out sprinting his chest is burning, his breath ragged in his throat and his ribs burn a throbbing inferno in time with his frantic heartbeat. Desperate, he turns down one dimly lit sidestreet and up the next, across roads he doesn’t recognize. His body is begging him to slow down, to stop, but Jaskier keeps doggedly on, knowing what will happen if he’s caught again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   If he had his phone…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   But he doesn’t. Jaskier isn’t even sure where he’s running, he doesn’t even really have a plan, other than a vague half-hope that he’ll find some way to evade them, duck into a dumpster, or a shadowed doorway, or lever himself onto a convenient fire escape and double-back when they run past.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Except this isn’t an action movie, and Jaskier’s no James Bond, able to fight ten men with two broken legs and half-dressed woman clinging to his neck. It’s inevitable that they catch him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   When he feels the tug on his coat Jaskier reaches for his zipper, but it’s too late. He’s dragged off his feet so suddenly he doesn’t have time to let out more than a startled breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   He fights. He fucking fights with every ounce of feeble, flagging energy he has, bites and claws and kicks and writhes. He feels flesh give under his teeth, hears the crack of bone and is spitting out someone else’s blood while another man screams curses above him in the darkness. A fist hits the side of his head twice in retaliation. The impacts send a curtain of bursting stars across his vision and Jaskier tastes more blood. He’s picked up and cursed floridly, shaken once, then tossed against something that rings hollow like a gong when he hits it and slumps limply into the snow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier stares at the wall, listening to the droning whine in his ears. He can’t move his arms or legs and his head is a bedlam of befuddled confusion and pain. He doesn’t know how long he lays in the cold, a riot of pain racketing his skull, but he becomes suddenly aware of shouts and the sounds of struggle coming from a little ways away from him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   His arms do respond this time, sluggishly, and as if he’s been buried neck-deep in mud, but he manages somehow to push himself upright enough to collapse against the metal dumpster behind him. He rolls his head on a limp neck toward the noise and what he sees is chaos. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   One man is laying on the ground, limbs awkwardly sprawled and his sightless eyes staring up at Jaskier. Above him two other men grapple over a point of gleaming steel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier thinks, passively, that he really ought to be more alarmed than he is about his current predicament But all he feels is detached, like all of this madness is happening to someone else, somewhere else, in a fictional world and Jaskier’s just watching from some distant, safe place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   He thinks: That’s Geralt, just as the knife goes clattering to the ground. The last goon is howling and clutching at the stump of his wrist. Jaskier’s stomach lurches at the silhouette of jagged bone, and acid bile stings the back of his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Geralt, his chest rising in great gasps, reaches out to grasp the man’s head in his hands and wrenches. Once. Just a single, sharp economy of motion. There’s a crack that sounds like gunfire and then Geralt is stepping back, letting the body tumble, lifeless, to the ground. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   The next seconds are breathless and unnaturally still in the aftermath, the only sound is Jaskier’s shallow gasping and Geralt’s deep, battle-labored breath. Jaskier watches the man with white hair as he stands, cast in high contrast, the breath steaming out of his mouth in great gouts while the shadows play strange games with his pale hair. In that one moment he is transformed, a Norse god, violence, beautiful and terrible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Jaskier frowns. He isn’t wearing a coat. He should put one on, or he’s going to get cold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Help.” Jaskier thinks he says, he must because Geralt is turning, coming to kneel in front of him, his hands already coming up to run along his arms, his neck, touching the tender throb along his temple. His fingers gleam black in the dark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Geralt is speaking. Jaskier realizes with some alarm that he can’t understand him. He blinks and tries to focus, but the more he tries, the further away everything seems to slip. He’s shaken and he thinks Geralt shouts, but Jaskier can’t keep his eyes open any longer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   As far as dramatic moments go, he has the final, fleeting thought as he lets himself fall into the blackness, he really couldn’t have picked a better time to faint.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please leave a comment or a kudos! They are my fuel! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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